Crisis of Conscience
by Absoluteroro
Summary: A narrative, from Lavi's point of view, of his desperate journey to becoming Bookman, and the obstacles he faces in trying to do away with his heart.
1. Crisis of Conscience

I don't want to have a heart.

I don't want to feel.

I only wish to exist.

Taking only the needed amount of breath to live for a day, so I can choke during the night, and miraculously revive in the dull morning.

Sometimes I succeed, in this ritual, of merely living, but other times, I'm distracted by the damned beating in my chest.

Its pulses sending waves of feeling and weakness throughout my blood, and utterly, rendering me vulnerable, to anything, and everything.

I'm only human, I say, to comfort myself when the guilt of what havoc my emotions wrought comes upon me, but that isn't enough.

Because I know that isn't the reason I succumb to these bouts of highly perceptive senses, the real reason, which try as I might, to ignore, so I can become the hollow shell I need to become, is because of a pair of striking navy blue eyes, and the dangerously alluring coldness exuded by them.

Even when I write at night, especially when I write at night, and the hungry hands of the Sand Man are grabbing for me, and my eyes are almost sealed with his special Sleeping Sand, my heart seems to be most awake in this dead hour, and begins to mockingly beat, louder, and louder, and with each beat, it rings and sounds, forever reverberated in my numb ears, spreading the maddening noise to every part of my body until, I, nearly napping, am jolted from my slight reverie with a jolt, surprised and angry at the wretched evil thoughts my heart had seeped into my unconscious mind.

Thoughts of glinting metal.

Thoughts of a certain slender frame.

Thoughts of...

Yuu.

In a fit of anger, I bring my right hand across the desk I was previously writing on, and the papers, suspended in air, begin their soft descent to the floor, while the ink and quills litter the ground already, ready to stain the pure and unsuspecting parchment.

A beastly growl escapes from my lips, as I clutch and claw at my chest, trying to rip the Devil Heart from my body, so I can hold it in my hands and see for myself the Black that I expect it to be, since it tortures me so.

Shreds of the shirt I was wearing fall to the ground around my feet, becoming martyrs of this raging war within me, along with the discarded rolls of paper and the carcasses of the quills.

My blind rage subsiding into a brooding tempest, I heave a sigh, and hold my hands close to my face.

I see the red of my own blood and the pale of my own flesh beneath my nails, and I feel a sinking feeling in my stomach.

I drop my hands down to my sides, disgusted at myself, and looked down at my bare chest.

Scratches, deep groves in my skin, were apparent, and they seemed to make some mindless criss-crossed pattern.

Frowning I watched mutely as a few drips of blood slid down my chest, and to the floor, from one of the cuts.

I wanted to shout and scream, but I was too tired.

In a resigned manner, I bent over and began picking up the fallen things from off my floor, all the while my mind, ever teeming, began to churn the same words over and over in my head, until it became a perverted chant for me to muse whilst I began to feel regret for my brief madness.

I did it again.

I bled for my sins again.

Yuu Kanda being my sin.

And the scars, my sacrifice.

My burning need to be apathetic, the God I slave away at the numerous altars for.

Why can't I purge myself from a sinner, to a saint?

I haven't suffered enough yet, that's why.

And my God Apathy, isn't willing to lend a merciful hand.


	2. Surcease of Sorrow

The sun's rays, and also, mercenaries, slither through the shades drawn across the wide window in my room and march along the wall, casting shadows, until at last, they reach my still form.

Attacking me with their bright artillery, they stain my skin yellow, and warm my numb body.

It's the morning, and I find myself tangled in sheets, while blindly trying to pry open tightly shut eyes.

A rumbling and low emission of victory emerges from my throat as a bright white floods my vision, and my pupils are bombarded with light.

I'm awake.

Surprised I managed to find sleep, despite the happenings of last night, I slap a hand to my face, as if to animate my blank features.

On cue, my mouth opens wide, into a gaping yawn, and my arms reach above my head, like branches, while I stretch.

The lengthening of my body caused a few scabbed-over cuts on my chest to peel apart, and I feel that slight pain.

Brushing the strands of scarlet hair from my face, I glance down at my marred chest.

I remember now, more vividly, the anger in which I impulsively acted upon last night.

I sigh, and bring my gaze up, towards the ceiling, lost in prayer, or rather, hopeful cries of mercies, to deliver me from this.

Waiting a few moments, to see if anything would happen, but noticing nothing out of the ordinary, I close my eyes, and rest my chin in the palm of my hand.

I'm hopeless.

Freezing my body in this pose, for in my mind's eye I envisioned myself as the epitome of a Lost Cause, I hear the silence of my room, broken, by nothing but my soft breathing and the wicked beating of my heart.

Knock.

Knock.

Pause.

Knock.

I lifted my head and turned to look expectantly at the door, my curiousity peaked.

Who would be requesting my presence at such an early hour?

I shifted my body, so I was now facing the door, and prepared the Mask for which I knew I would have to wear soon, to hide the confused and broken me from the rest of the World.

Knock.

Knock.

More persistent now.

Knock.

No pause.

Knock.

Knock.

And a voice...

"Get up."

That I wasn't pleased to hear.

Holding my breath for a few seconds, I recollected myself and dusted my ever faithful Mask off, pulling it from it's velvet-lined case and placing it with gentle care onto my countenance, now the illusion was in place.

I forced a slightly less somber expression onto my face and quickly drew on an undershirt that I had plucked from a chair.

I shivered slightly as the cool material it was made of, slithered down my body and somewhat comforted the aching sores on my chest.

Scars hidden, I quickly crossed the room and swung open the door, not the least bit surprised to find myself face-to-face with my very own sin; Yuu Kanda.

I forced a grin, and ran a hand through my hair lazily, feigning lackadaisy.

"Good morning."

The swordsman only grunted, and eyed my appearance with distaste.

"You aren't dressed yet?"

I shook my head no, and veered my eyes away from the his beautifully structured jaw bone.

I mentally punished myself for the flurry of thoughts that invaded my mind on how my teeth could nip, ever so gently on it, leaving small red bruises along the pale skin there.

I briefly closed my eyes, hoping he didn't notice what I was looking at, or where my thoughts were.

He didn't.

"Well, too bad, I'm not waiting for you any longer. Komui has requested the two of us for something, most likely another mission."

I shrugged my shoulders, and was about to reply, when suddenly I heard a noise.

A very bone-chilling noise.

A noise that sounded muffled, but was louder than ever.

I realized what it was and I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to silence the increasing volume of the beating of my damned heart.

Couldn't he hear it?

It was deafening in my ears, and not even my carefully balanced facade could cover the sound of the dreadful thing.

I was panicking.

I lost control of my disguise, and it slipped.

He saw through my veil.

I had leaned against the doorframe for support, deafened by the sound seemingly echoing from my very own chest.

Kanda narrowed his eyes, and watched me, a restrained look of some foreign emotion etched into his effeminate features.

I felt faint, and the room was spinning, I had tunnel vision.

And everything was quickly fading into black except for that apathetic expression that I loathed to love.

My arms went limp and flailed uselessly in front of me, as I began to fall...fall...fall...to the floor.

My eyes had closed and the wounds I inflicted upon myself the night before had begun to bleed again.

And as I slipped into that state of Seeing while Sleeping, I felt that crimson liquid, warm as it was, stain the floor beneath me.

The last thing I saw; narrowed blue eyes.

The last thing I heard; the cruel and mocking beating of the Beast Organ inside of me.

My last coherent thought was of how I wished to cut It out, and toss it into the deepest ocean.


	3. Cry of Despair

I stared.

No one was around to see, so I stared openly.

I committed the scars to memory, I stared so long and so hard that I'm sure that the lexicon of lines on his chest were imprinted onto the wrinkles of my brain.

I was disgusted.

I was in disbelief.

I was impressed.

He did that to himself?

Why?

Whose fault was it?

Mine?

I doubt it.

I sighed heavily, and sat, in the chair beside his bed.

I placed my elbows upon my knees and I held my head in my hands, watching his still form, trying to understand, wanting to understand, but missing everything entirely.

He shifted his position.

The medicine was wearing off, and he was becoming slightly mroe conscious of the world around him.

I decided then, was my time to leave, I didn't want to be the first one he saw when he awoke.

And I did not want to give an explanation for my prescence.

I stood, and adjusted the stiff jacket I usually wore, the high collar agitated my neck, and made me feel claustrophobic.

I spared one last glance at the shock of red hair attached to the head with eyes unseeing and made for my exit.

As I turned my back though, I heard a noise.

Like the clearing of one's throat.

"Yuu?"

Uncertainty was laced in the soft whisper of his voice, followed by the rustling of sheets as he hurried to cover his scarred, and previously bare chest.

"Yuu."

Not a question this time, a statement, more firm and frightened of what I saw.

I felt anger towards him in that moment.

He wanted to know if I saw, of course I did.

I'm not blind.

I saw, and I wanted, so badly, to yell at him for it, but I didn't.

Instead I carefully kept my expression blank, and looked back, over my shoulder, at his pathetic face.

When our eyes met, he knew, without me having to waste breath saying it, that I saw his crimes.

I saw them everywhere.

I saw the crusted blood, and the even fresher blood that seeped from the bandages wrapped, hastily, about his torso.

He knew, and he hung his head in shame.

His face burning red hot with guiltiness.

I scoffed, and swiftly turned around, bringing my gaze back to the door in front of me.

"You're weak Lavi."

I took a few strides, willing myself not to look back, and in a flurry of righteousness I flung open the door, and slammed it behind me.

As much as I tried to ignore it, I couldn't.

His soft and pleading voice, as I tried to run away, caught me.

"Yuu...wait..."

Everytime he says that name, my name, it brings me to my knees.

The sensitivity in which he said it made me want to cry, but I wouldn't.

I am not like him.

I'm strong.

I closed my eyes and leaned against the door, my head tilted slightly upwards.

Anger began to choke my windpipe, and cause my breath to come out in jagged gasps.

Damn him.

Damn him to hell.

--

I sat up in the pristine and white bed in the infirmary.

I stared at the door, willing for it to open and Yuu would run inside, demanding an explanantion, demanding something from me.

But nothing happened.

The reality of what had transpired became too real, and I had failed again.

I ran a shaking hand through my hair, and let a barely audible sigh escape my lips.

"Yuu..."

He had seen them.

He saw my scars.

Now he knew, he was the bane of my existence.

But the reason I live as well.

What does that make him?

A contradictory thing?

Better yet, what does that make me?

A nuisance?

I knew it hurt him, to see me like this, to see my sacrifices, to see what he does to me, it hurt him.

I saw it in his eyes, the blue of them swirling with a wetness and creating a soft watercolour.

He wanted to cry.

He should have.

I would've understood.

But Yuu is to prideful for that.

He's still a man.

Just like I'm still a prisoner.

A prisoner to my own self.

Man versus self.

Me, and myself, against I.

I gritted my teeth together, and clenched my fists.

Did I destroy what we had?

Was that bad?

Or...was it what I wanted all along?

"DAMN IT!"

I flung the covers off of my body, and stared down at my mutilated chest.

I did that to myself.

And here's the consequence.

I sat up, and threw my legs over the side of the bed, and sat there, my back hunched, my elbows placed on my knees, and my arms dangling listlessly.

My hair, in surrender as well, falling into my face and nearly obstructing my view.

"I'm too weak to continue."

"Does it beat still?"

I looked up quickly , caught off-guard by the raspy voice, but quickly recognized it as the voice belonging to my mentor, The Bookman.

He was sitting in the chair across from me, his eyes, surrounded by black, peered into my weary face, searching for my answer.

When I hadn't replied, he spoke again, this time blowing smoke from the pipe in his mouth directly into my eyes.

I coughed and turned my head to the left, avoiding the smoke, and refused to answer him.

Because I knew, how humiliating my answer would be.

His leathery, and wrinkled hand came up to my face and grasped my chin, with much force, he turned my head around, and stared me directly in my face.

His hand squeezed my chin as he leaned in closer, his eyes narrowed and his lips barely moving as he spoke.

"Look at me."

I winced slightly at the amount of pressure on my jaw, and blinked slowly, realizing that I was under his authority, and I had been for awhile.

"Yes sir."

He nodded, as if pleased, and quickly let his hand fall from my face.

He resumed his blank expression and leaned back, a considerable amount, in the stiff chair.

"Now, I will ask again. Does it beat still?"

I blushed, I was guilty, and it was showing, why hide it?

I've already been exposed to the person whom it matters most.

Let's put myself in a more vulnerable position.

"Yes."

A sharp, stinging sensation flooded the right side of my face, a large red blotch began to spread across my face.

I had been slapped.

By the Bookman, no less.

It stunned me for a moment, but I quickly adapted to the tingling pain.

I was used to this kind of discipline from him.

"You're a disappointment Lavi."

I struggled to hold my composure, he was so forthright in my failure, it hurt, and I wanted to say something, anything, to defend myself, but I knew that wasn't wise.

it would only end up in another slap in the face.

Or maybe something worse.

Maybe he would leave me alone in my moment of despair, and leave me to solve this for myself.

Leave me wallowing in my misery.

I didn't want that.

I spared a quick glance to my chest, and followed the lines there.

No.

I didn't want that.

I resorted to violence then.

And that solved nothing.

--

More smoke.

And another pair of peering eyes.

"You're a failure Lavi. It's even written on your chest in blood!"

He pointed a gnarled into my chest, irritating one of the cuts there, and dragged it along, his long nails leaving a fresh line of blood in their wake.

I looked up, into his eyes, I saw no malice there, I saw no spite.

All I saw was the weathered and wise look of a man that suffered the same as I did, to become the machine he is today.

The Bookman, withdrew his finger, and wiped the blood, my blood, onto his uniform.

He sat in front of me, quiet for a moment, as he puffed broodingly on his pipe.

A time had passed before he spoke again, his voice had lost that ferocity, that tone that demanded respect, and now sounded like the weak and fading voice of a true old man.

"Do you want this? Lavi...do you really want this?"

"I do."

I didn't feel the conviction anymore in those words, now they were an automatic response, I didn't want to be Bookman as much as I used to, I just wasn't sure.

He sensed it, he always does.

"The truth Lavi."

I felt my heart beating sluggishly inside of me, as if it were tired of the conspiracy against it.

As if it were tired of defending itself.

I was tired too.

I was tired of everything.

"That is truth."

The fleeting expression of hurt I saw in Yuu's face, the disappointment in The Bookman's eyes, the surrender in my own reflection, flashed quickly through my mind as I lied, unashamedly, through my teeth.

A silence ensued my Lie, and draped the two of us in a white veil, the muffled sound of my heart, as if covered in cloth, the only audible sound, while the abscence of beating from the Bookman's chest mocked me and my noisy beast.

Is this how I am to live?

Like an abomination in the eyes of others?

I shuddered, and broke the silence, tearing down the gauzy veil and giving my heart beat a friend in the noise.

"It's those eyes. They're so blue, everytime I see them, I can't do anything to stop myself."

The Bookman sent me a look that was neither sympathetic, nor condescending.

"Cut It out Lavi, or you will never achieve greatness."

He stood and left, the door closing silently and retreating to it's frame as if it had never been opened in the first place.

The atmosphere had settled around me, and the smoke that had failed to escape with the other plumes had drifted towards me, and embedded itself into my skin.

I was choking in this silence now, all by my lonesome.

I had to cut it out, he said.

I had to, or I would never achieve greatness.

I had to ask myself, as I mulled over The Bookman's parting words, what greatness was.

And what was so great about being heartless?

What was there to achieve in being a machine?

I fell backwards, onto the pillows and sheets of the bed, and stared at the ceiling, looking for some sort of divine sign from above.

What is greatness?

Do I still live for it?

"No."

I felt a pressure heaving itself from my chest at the revelation.

"I don't. I live for Yuu now."

I closed my eyes and imagined a world without machines, a world where it was okay to have a heart.

And I felt all right in that fantasy place.

I felt like I belonged.

And as the minutes went by, my body began to seep itself, more and more, into this vision until it was real.

And I was living a dream, the dream, my dream.

A world with love, a world with me, a world with Yuu.


	4. Lament of The Loveless

Button.

Button.

Button.

Zip.

Rustle.

Rustle.

Button.

Zip.

My uniform, stiff and shining a lacquer black was now in place.

Another layer of skin, for I wore it almost as long as I had been wearing my true pale skin, in place.

The black and white, and the cross that adorned my left breast.

My life.

My second skin.

I am an exorcist.

Protected by God, to cleanse the world of its abominations and record every single, gruesome event.

To commit the sordid and often grotesque crimes of the Demons and of the Sinners to mind.

Page after page of hastily-scrawled notes, of long and defining paragraphs, of detailed and picturesque accounts of Sin.

These yellowing and aged papers, written upon with the black ink of a merciless scribe, my aspiration.

My sad, pathetic aspiration.

To write and write and write, the more I write, the more I die.

At the cost of my heart, I would be able to achieve greatness.

I would be able to spend sleepless nights with a blacker than black ink bottle, filled with its even blacker poison, and a quill.

The feather stained and dirtied by Time and ink, held by hands even more marred by the smudges of ink-poison, crippled and frail, only capable of gripping pens.

The fingers withered and old and thin, pale, yet black.

Always black, always a hint of black.

My future.

I closed my eyes and sighed.

A deep, chest-heaving sigh.

A sigh so loud, but so quiet it was like the gentle, deafening yawn of a Giant, muted by the yell of a mouse.

I had taken in a deep breath and sighed again.

I had to prepare myself, I had to brace myself, I had to be ready for anything.

I had made my decision that morning, after the conversation I shared with The BookMan.

I was going to 'cut it out'.

It would be no more.

I might have dreamed about my utopia with Yuu, but it wasn't to be.

As much as I yearned, as much as I suffered, it couldn't happen.

It had been my perverted and twisted dream since I was younger, to get rid of my Heart, and for a short and blissful while I wanted it, but that phase didn't last.

Love didn't save me.

It only gave me more conviction to get rid of it.

I had never been a happy or loved boy, and the countless nights of lust from the older men I encountered in the streets didn't help, they only fueled the Empty inside of me, fueled it into one big, blustering ball of Emptiness.

A black hole.

In me.

Yes.

That Empty, it was like a parasite, it slowly ate away at me, until I couldn't bear it any longer.

It engulfed my heart a long time ago, it swallowed it whole the night when I was left all alone in the cold.

It choked out my young, passionate fire and ate any remaining embers.

Mr. Empty became my only friend, and my only enemy.

He loved me, and he would croon sweet melodies of the void that awaited me once he had finished feasting, and how we would be together forever, floating in the Abyss of Absence.

I was a shell, hollow, I was empty.

Until I came across Him.

He was left alone too, but somehow, the Empty didn't find him like it found me.

He might have been bloody and angry, and a murderer, but he wasn't Empty.

When I saw him, young and bruised, I saw passion.

I saw something.

I saw substance.

I saw the opposite of me.

In that moment, that singular moment, I felt a sluggish thump inside of me.

A tired and weary and weak and faint thump inside of me.

My Heart.

Despite the years of being in the Stomach of the Empty, it was still alive.

It had beaten.

Once.

Then twice.

Then it faded, to weak to go on.

In awe, I raised a helpless hand to my chest and held it over my heart.

My eyes, tired and a dusty emerald colour, widened and stared at the boy with the tattoo, at the young Angel, at the long black hair, at the blood, at the eyes, those navy-blue eyes, and I knew, he was going to fill me up.

Fill me up and never let me be empty ever again.

How wrong I was.

How horrible and very wrong.

The more I found myself secretly, and longingly staring after the brooding boy, the more I felt myself sinking into a muddy hole of Desire.

It stuck to my clothes and pulled me in deeper and deeper, it was a quicksand, and I, as a stupid moth, was left floundering in it, attracted so much to the Light, that I failed to realize the danger of my current situation.

I shook my head and tried to dispel the cloud of yearning for the past and the innocent wants of the Before Time.

This was now, this was the moment I would separate myself from the faceless crowd of the weak.

I was going to be Heartless.

My sleek, leather and ebony boots clacked against the nearly perfect white marble of the halls.

The white walls, high and blank, decorated sparsely with a few crosses, and the high white ceilings, with golden Chandelier-Spiders hanging from them, were the only things my world-weary and desperate eyes could gaze upon as I made my way down the familiar halls.

Left.

Right.

Left again.

Another left.

And then, a right.

Twenty paces down the hall was the room of my Heart.

Behind that tall and heavy door, was a certain pair of navy-blue eyes, flecks of grey and black swirling within them, beckoning, calling, whispering for my tortured and troubled emerald greens to join their dismal rainbow.

They were calling, and I was coming.


End file.
